


Beauty

by WahlBuilder



Series: Loved [1]
Category: Venom (Comics)
Genre: Affection, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Love, Other, Oviposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 05:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16190936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Eddie and his darling make an important decision and then turn it into action.





	Beauty

First, they explain to Eddie how it would go. They need him to understand it completely, because only then he can make an informed decision.

Consent is everything.

Without it, they are nothing but tools, worse than animals. Those things they were created to be—the purpose they rebelled against.

(All-Black has chosen to be alone. The ultimate sacrifice is humbling, and they don’t forget that.)

Then Eddie says, “Yes.”

They are so happy and full of love they burst into tiny pieces—but then Eddie scoops them up (he always does) with a laughter and a scattering of kisses that they return.

Eddie is beautiful.

(Beauty is what makes pain go away—or sometimes it’s what hurts but in a good way.)

They decide to make it special. Eddie works hard during the week, finishing his articles, and they make sure that he takes his medication properly and eats well and sleeps enough (on Wednesday, they have to save the article and close the laptop and usher Eddie to bed). Together, they write and schedule posts for their blog, stock up the fridge and pantry.

Then, Saturday comes.

It starts the usual: Eddie wakes up and kisses them, and they spend some time just nuzzling each other. But then they nudge Eddie out of the bed. He needs breakfast and pills and—

“All right, all right,” Eddie chuckles, raking his fingers through them. “Don’t grumble.”

They push him in the direction of the bathroom. **“Not grumbling! Shower then food, Eddie!”**

They slither to the kitchen while Eddie washes himself, momentarily distracted when Eddie— **“No touching yourself! That’ll come later!”**

They feel Eddie is teasing, and they try to hold themself together and not melt into a puddle. Breakfast, make Eddie breakfast.

They venture into the living room, take the laptop, then return to the kitchen, settle the laptop on the table, flick it open, turn it on. Gather ingredients for breakfast from the fridge while it’s booting. They get to YouTube and turn on 10 hours of rain sounds. Soothing. Like Eddie in the shower.

They take out a microwave bowl, put frozen veggies into it— “Broccoli again?” Eddie moans in the shower, shaving.

**“Broccoli good. No dessert if no broccoli.”**

Eddie sighs in their mindspace. “Fine, fine.”

They add spices, put the bowl into the microwave, turn on the kettle.

It’s like any day—but it’s also _special_.

They have a breakfast together—Eddie making them chocolate, thick and hot and with almond milk, and they talk—about upcoming movies they are planning to watch, that exhibition Eddie wants to cover, and when they can go to the animal shelter next time (they miss kitties).

(They love it when Eddie talks about things he cares about.)

Together, they wash dishes—and then, catching a moment when Eddie is distracted, they lick his cheek quickly.

The way something inside Eddie tightens, the way his pupils dilate and his breath catches—it’s all beautiful.

It feels good, to be wanted.

“I always want you, darling,” Eddie murmurs.

There is no untruthfulness in this. No hesitation, not a hint of strangeness. Only acceptance and love and desire.

**“I love you, Eddie.”**

Eddie smiles. He has a gentle smile, and they like watching, feeling the play of muscles that make it so. “Love you, too, darling. Bed?”

**“Bed.”**

Eddie carries them back to the bedroom. They like draping themself around his shoulders, sometimes imitating wool or fur. This way, they can receive kisses, or retreat quickly under Eddie’s skin, or expand.

“I like it when you are like this, too, darling.”

They squirm happily.

But as they walk, together, their anticipation grows. They stroke the muscle of Eddie’s heart—gently, very gently, careful not to disrupt fragile inner workings of Eddie’s body. They feel air rushing over them as it’s being sucked into Eddie’s lungs. They flow with his blood, dance with electric impulses in Eddie’s brain, they—

“Darling.”

His voice rumbles so beautifully, and they emerge from Eddie.

His eyes are beautiful, and they see their reflection in them, black and white, glimmering.

They stroke his cheek. They like the organic nature of it, his body, so warm, so alive, changing constantly.

Eddie sighs, closing his eyes. They can tell chemical components of his breath—but instead they simply swipe a tongue over his lips.

Eddie smiles.

Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

“I know, darling. I feel the same.”

They hitch up his white T-shirt. They like his soft, worn things: jeans used to the point of discoloration, his washed-out plain hoodie, a set of T-shirts, now uniformly gray. He would look good in other things, and they have a collection of fancy clothes memorized to turn into—but for themself, for their home, they like those old things very much. Eddie’s scent on them.

Eddie lifts his arms, and they pull the T-shirt off, extend to put it on a chair carefully. Then they push Eddie onto the bed.

He goes down easily, sits down, then scoots up, then lies down at their insistent pressure on his chest.

They stroke over his tattoos, lines and symbols and words, each a story. They stroke the twining pattern on his right forearm that they made weeks ago—just for him, marking Eddie. Because both of them wanted it.

They don’t close off their thoughts and plans from him, like they sometimes do during their bedroom experiments (and not only in the bedroom). Their thoughts, their emotions flow freely, twirling, twining around each other, amplifying each other.

They want, and Eddie wants, and both of them want.

**“Eddie.”**

He tangles fingers in them, and they flow and pulse and change. They press on him, on his chest, covering him completely, like he likes it, while they are undressing him entirely, fold away jeans and boxers and socks.

**“Eddie.”**

He closes his eyes. Tilts his chin up.

He’s beautiful.

They drag their tongue up his neck, slowly, making the texture stronger. Then under his jaw, to his ear—his breath hitches again, pleasure, want like a splash of warmth in their shared mindspace.

**“Will be warm, Eddie.”**

He chuckles—and they scrape their teeth over his throat to catch the sound.

They make a hand, slightly larger than Eddie’s, and slot their fingers between Eddie’s, and he holds onto them.

He’s so beautiful.

They stroke all of him. They know human conventions of body beauty, of male beauty in different cultures and in different times—they know it as they know English names of colors or that the way Eddie’s face softens and changes is called a smile. They know it because Eddie knows it—and they know his insecurities, his anxiousness: he’s too broad, some people find tattoos repulsive, and there are scars—

 **“Shh, Eddie. I’m here.”** They rub their cheek against his, and Eddie turns his head to them, kissing them.

His breathing is so quick.

“Darling.”

**“Eddie.”**

They wrap themself—in his mind, guarding him against those fears, those bad chemical quirks in his brain, those memories, words half-forgotten but still hurting him. He is beautiful, and they push that awe, that warmth into him.

“You always know how to—”

**“—comfort you. Yes. Love.”**

Both of them just lie there, together, touching each other, exchanging thoughts, feelings easily. Occupying the same space.

They stroke between his legs.

He arches with a moan, and it’s like their mindspace fills with flame—but in a good way.

Eddie’s whole body tightens, so beautiful, and they stroke him a few times more just to feel him squirm. Like a wave. Like a flame.

His hand tightens in them. “Darling… Now would be good.”

 **“Still can talk, Eddie? Hm.”** They tease—but they want it, too, and Eddie knows it.

They wrap tight around his cock but don’t move there. Instead they slip more tendrils, coating them with slime, lower, stroking—

“Darling.” Eddie’s frustration colors the blaze in their mindspace into crimson.

Beautiful.

They want all of it.

He opens up easily, but they wait when they penetrate him, wait until his quick-quick breathing slows down, becomes deeper, and his body relaxes and the blaze, hot, very hot and good, slows down, too.

They stroke his cheek. **“Good?”** They _know_ , feel it’s good, but they need to ask. They always ask.

Eddie opens his eyes. There is a sheen of sweat on his face, and they lick it off because they don’t need to hold back. Waiting.

“Yes. Good. Go on.”

They know they can simply slide right in, do it fast, finish everything quick—

“Oh no, love, we should enjoy this.” Eddie strokes them, and they form a spine for him to scratch.

He does when they push more tendrils into him. He arches again, throws his head back, so beautiful, so beautiful, they pulse that thought into his mind.

So beautiful.

They feel it, they know it when he’s ready, when he can’t possibly get more ready, so slick and open, and they hold him open—and push the egg in.

Eddie’s breathing stops for a moment when it stretches him—but there’s nothing but wonder and bliss in their mindspace.

And when the egg, round and safe, is securely, snuggly inside him, and they decide to retreat—Eddie squeezes their hand, panting hard, chest up and down, up and down. Words not coming out at first try. “Darling. _Love_. Stay inside me.”

They squeeze his cock, so hard, leaking, straining. **“Everywhere inside you. Eddie.”**

He moans, and they lick it off his lips, oh Eddie, Eddie, Eddie…

“Always. Together.”

It’s beautiful.


End file.
